


Golden Blue

by Mickidona



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Mentioned AmeBel, Mentioned CanUkr, Oneshot, not really important to the plot though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-12
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-06-07 21:59:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6826330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mickidona/pseuds/Mickidona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is to attend his brother's wedding in 'proper wedding attire', and thus is subjected to the torture of a fancy suit shop and its pretentious employees- well, one employee in particular. FrUk oneshot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Golden Blue

“Arms up, please.”

Arthur raised his arms tentatively, standing like a scarecrow in the middle of an almost indecently large dressing room. How like his parents to choose such a pretentious suit shop with dressing rooms so big they could have been used as bedrooms.

Everything about the place was pretentious: the golden embossed walls, shimmering under the extravagantly tacky chandelier lights; the dressing rooms, sectioned off by pale blue curtains rather than doors; even the carpeted floors, twice as thick as your average carpet and coloured a soft, rosy gold. It was disgusting.

Worst of all were the employees. White shirt, buttoned all the way up, crisp as the day it was made. Blue suit jacket, just like the curtains, matching the carefully tailored slacks that clung to the wearer’s form whilst still being appropriate for work clothes. Both women and men wore ties, a deep gold that offset the blue quite spectacularly. If it weren’t for the name tags, white with black script and golden curls in each corner, the outfits would have been fit for a wedding.

He was the worst. Blond hair down to his shoulders, gentle waves ending in elegant curls, moving with a fluidity that captured the eye. Blue eyes, like watching the ocean at midday, framed by long lashes, a shade or two darker than his hair. Skin so smooth and lips so pink he was surely wearing makeup, and jawline accentuated with a healthy spattering of light brown stubble. Not that Arthur was paying attention - not really - but there was little else to do.

“You’re very thin,” commented the man, François. His name was François, how pretentious! Arthur wanted to slap him.

“Shut up,” he grumbled. “Just get on with it.”

“It is my job to make good conversation,” François laughed, tapping Arthur’s arms until he lowered them and moving to measure his waist. It tickled.

“Then it’s a wonder you haven’t been fired yet,” he shot back, then immediately felt guilty. Damn, it was hard being a punk when people were only being kind. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Bad day.”

“Not a problem,” smiled the ever-happy salesman, jotting down another measurement and moving to Arthur’s legs. “Why are you here, then? You do not seem the type to wear suits.”

“Parents,” Arthur muttered. “My brother’s wedding is coming up, and they refuse to let me go in this.” He chuckled softly at that, gesturing to the ripped jeans and leather jacket ensemble that so clashed with the décor. “He said he didn’t mind, though his dear fiancée probably thinks differently. She’s a shark, that one.”

François laughed too, hand lingering on Arthur’s hip longer than was strictly necessary.

“My own brother’s sister-in-law is much the same, though his wife is more placid. Lovely girl,” he hummed, scribbling something in his notepad. “Do you like this girl?”

“Like her?” Arthur had never been asked that. “Well… I don’t _dislike_ her, I suppose, and Al’s obviously madly in love with her, and as long as he’s happy with her, I am too.”

“How kind,” François smiled, then paused and frowned. “Al, you say? Your brother wouldn’t happen to be Alfred Jones, would he?”

Arthur blinked.

“Yes, he would. How did you know that?”

François laughed.

“Your brother is marrying _my_ brother’s sister-in-law,” he explained, attempting to hold back his giggles and failing miserably. “Natalya Braginsky, no?”

“Then your brother must be Matthew,” Arthur exclaimed, not quite as amused as François, but certainly astounded. “Husband of Katyusha, incredible.” He paused. “God, we’re going to be _related_.”

“Not quite,” François chuckled. “Matheiu is my half brother.”

“As is Alfred to me, how ridiculous!”

“There are many similarities between us, no? Our brothers, their partners, and, of course, we are both European,” he said rather slyly, slipping in a wink.

“You are French then,” Arthur sighed, rolling his eyes. “I’d hoped for Canadian, at the very least; like your brother.”

“Ah, but you are English, unlike your dear American brother,” François pointed out, still smiling widely. “That much is obvious.”

“Oi, don’t say it like that! I’m proud of being English,” Arthur frowned, pulling a face.

“As you all are,” sighed the Frenchman dramatically, pressing a hand to his forehead. “So pretentious, each and every one of you!”

“Hypocrite, take a look at your shop,” Arthur snorted, and soon they were both laughing, mostly at each other, or perhaps with each other.

“So you are Arthur,” he smiled, laughter dying down.

“And you’re François,” Arthur added rather unnecessarily, gesturing to his name tag.

“A pleasure to meet you, Arthur,” trilled the Frenchman, sending an unwanted shiver down Arthur’s spine. Damn his charisma. “There are only two more things to address, then,” he added after a moment.

Arthur raised an eyebrow.

“And they are?”

“One; come back next Tuesday to try on your suit,” he smiled, writing the date in scrawling cursive and handing the bit of paper to Arthur.

He frowned. There were too many numbers. He opened his mouth to protest.

“And two; my shift is over at three. Care to join me for lunch?”

Oh. _Oh_.

“This is your number, then,” Arthur muttered, mostly to himself. “Alright, frog, as long as you’re paying.”

“It’s a date,” François beamed, catching up Arthur’s hand and pressing a quick kiss there, eliciting a heavy blush from the Brit.

“Ah- yes, alright then, if you say so,” he mumbled, yanking his hand away in embarrassment.

“Magnifique! I will see you at three, then?”

“At three,” Arthur nodded, leaving the dressing room as François held the curtain for him.

“Au revoir, Arthur,” he smiled, slipping behind the register and filing away the page of measurements. “Until we meet again.”

Arthur nodded, smiled, even gave a little wave, and then turned and exited the suit shop with a curious sensation in his stomach. Perhaps this wedding wouldn’t be such a bad thing after all.

**Author's Note:**

> So that's my first story on this site! I originally posted this on fanfic.net, along with my other stories, but there's a few stories on there I'm just not happy with. I'd rather not delete them, so instead I'm freezing that account and moving over here. Turning over a new leaf, and all.  
> I hope you like the fic, please leave kudos and/or a review!


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